


The Unsaid

by LuceLawliet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 15:42:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7580062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuceLawliet/pseuds/LuceLawliet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>" There will always come a time when we need Sherlock Holmes. "<br/>" If this is some expression of sentiment... "<br/>" Don't be ridiculous! I'm not accustomed to outbursts of brotherly compassion... remember what happened to the other one. "<br/>[ cit. Sherlock 3x03- his last vow ]</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unsaid

**Author's Note:**

> If I wrote this one-shot you can blame Mycroft, and his ambiguous sentence: " Remember what happened to the other one. " I played on the possible meaning...

  
**St. Bart's, London; h 21.39**  
 

" Sherlock...? Sherlock? Can you hear me? "  
He's not sure... can he?  
Maybe.   
Something is pressing against his sternum, it's heavy, and his attention is focused on that oppressive weight, as he realizes it's not only annoying him, but also choking him.  
Redbeard.  
The thought crosses his mind with the speed of a flash; why did that stupid dog come to lie down on him?  
"Nurse, could you lower the dose of morphine?"  
Here, the same voice as before.  
What's he saying? Lower the morphine ...?  
Sherlock tries to take a breath to speak, when a groan of sufferer pain awakens his whole body, and for the second time he is going to rant against Redbeard.  
He is in the hospital, at least this was simple to deduce. He warns, unmistakable, the smell of medicines, disinfectant and sterilized items.  
And something else. Something that clashes sharply with any other smell around him, something pleasantly familiar that, at the time, is the only reason why the knowledge of being immobile, lying in an uncomfortable hospital bed, doesn't make him panic.  
"But I have to talk to him! Just a minute, it's important."  
"Sir, even the doctor told you. The patient is not yet completely out of danger, the only thing he needs is rest."  
"I'm a doctor too!" Replies the voice again, he seems apt to cross the threshold of patience "He is my best friend, and he was shot! I'm not going anywhere until I talk to him."  
"As you wish. However, don't expect he'll remain conscious for a long time, he's still too weak. I'll be back in ten minutes to change the drip."  
" Thank you. "  
The sound of footsteps and the click of a door closing gently.  
"You won..." Sherlock finally manages to mumble, when he perceives John's smell getting more intense, sign that he is approached again.  
"Oh my God, Sherlock ..."  
How reassuring his voice is. Sherlock hopes he'll continue to talk, no matter what he says. He needs something concrete that holds him there, in that status, painful but real, so that he could not plunge more into the obscure limbo that has become his mental building in the last ten hours. Like a tunnel with no exit. The worst of all nightmares.  
"John, take..." Sherlock's voice is weak, fatigued, as he tries to shore up his elbows on the mattress in a ridiculous attempt to get up. "Redbeard ..."  
"No, no, no, no, no, Sherlock. Do not even think about it, you're under  morphine. Do not move."  
"Redbeard."  
" What? "  
"Redbeard, John!" Finally he opens his eyes. The weak neon lamp left burning on the nightstand beside the bed is white enough to blind him, but the detective tries with all his heart to not close them again; Where is John?  
" Get the dog off me. Come on, hurry up. It's suffocating me."  
Suddenly, John's face appears clearer than ever before his eyes. He doesn't let escape the smallest wrinkle on that tanned skin, short hair uncombed, probably victims of hands which in the last few hours have  tortured them, mercilessly; dark, evident circles, worried look.  
It lasts only a moment. Because as he's seen, the image becomes blurred and threatens him to fade into darkness that at any moment will come to claim him again, dragging him into the limbo.  
The thought is enough to disgust him and he strongly closes his eyelids, as his fingers are convulsively tightening the sheet.  
"Quiet, Sherlock" John observes with concern, hidden under an experienced and professional attention "I'm here. Don't get yourself tired. You're safe now, everything is fine."  
"Move the dog, John. Now I'm not in the mood for pampering."  
"Sherlock, there is no dog in the room."  
The detective's eyes are wide open.  
"Say it again."  
"There are no dogs; Sherlock ...? Maybe the nurse is right, better if you ..."  
"But I feel it! It's right here, it's ..."  
When he touches the abdomen with the hand, pain explodes with the force of a bomb, and the consulting detective doesn't cry just because he's not strong enough to do it.  
John quickly takes his hand; holding him by arms, the doctor reassures him, again.  
"Listen to me, listen. You got shot, you risked going to shock. It is normal for you to be confused, don't be afraid. I'll stay here tonight."  
The moment his fingers had caressed the gauze, Sherlock realized John was right; it wasn't the dog which was taking away his breath, but the bandages around his body, where the bullet had pierced the lung.  
It wasn't his dog.  
It wouldn't have been possible, anyway.  
However, it would have been nice if John had given him the illusion ... that  could have been true. Just once.  
The next instant he realizes he can't blame John. He is not even aware of that story. No one knows. Except Mycroft, of course.

_I'll stay here, tonight._

  
He would like to tell him to go home, he should tell him that all these demonstrations of affection, these feelings, will not serve to make him heal faster... but the truth is different, and it hurts. 

_I'll stay here, tonight._

  
Oh, John. If you only knew who's the woman with whom you share your bed every night ...

_I'll stay here._

  
"Thank you, John." Is all he can whisper, before plunging into darkness.

                                                        

 

**Norfolk. 19 years ago.**

  
"It's ready! Myke, go call your brother, dear."  
"Why? Can't you shout loudly against the floor? He'll definitely feel that."  
"Mycroft!"  
"All right! I'm going."  
The oldest of little Holmes was forced to leave the book face down against the chair, on which he had been sitting comfortably in the last forty-five minutes reading, to obey his mother, moving listlessly to the cellar.  
They had moved from a week in the new house, in the middle of the damp and dreary countryside. A green paradise, as his mother called it, a reward after a lifetime devoted to mathematics and growth of three children. Now it was time for a little 'rest, even for her.  
Mycroft had not jumped for joy; for him, it meant only that he should have finished his last year in a new school, but other than that, it did not upset him.  
Sherlock, on the other hand, was really angry. Retire to live in a remote place, peaceful and quiet, in the middle of nowhere was too much even for his standards of sociopath. Of course, you needed to add a "hyperactive" at the end; what could he have done in such a place? Keep the mind occupied would proved to be a challenge, at least until September, with the start of school.  
But the one who most of all was shocked, was Cale.  
She and her nine and a half years were really difficult to manage, mainly because, unlike his brothers, she used to exploit her brain very little.  
If, for Mycroft, Sherlock was slow on the uptake, then she would also have passed for an adopted sister, it wasn't for those curls and those mischievous, glacial eyes.

 

"Sherlock, honey, put away those stones from the table, we are eating."  
"These aren't stones, but petrified beetles."  
Sitting at the head of the table, Mr. Holmes looked up to the ceiling, theatrically. "Dead beetles. Now you put even playing with dead beetles."  
"It is an experiment." Sherlock said, unperturbed. "I have many others alive in my jacket pocket, anyway."  
"For heaven's sake, Violet. Talk to him yourself."  
"I talk all the time, but he doesn't listen to me." Shrugged Mrs. Holmes, as she filled the plates of stew and roast potatoes.  
"Because you rarely say something intelligent."  
"Hey!" Was the rebuke of his father, when the woman glared at the boy.  
Sherlock looked down at his plate, then he watched smear the empty seat next to him.  
"If Cale can stay upstairs, why can I not continue with the experiments in the cellar? I'm not hungry."  
"Because dinner is something we have to do toghether; because we've been here a few days and I have no idea what you are doing in that damn cellar, nor do I care to find out, and because Cale in this period is not well and if she doesn't want to eat, then I'm not going to force her. "  
"It's not true, she is fine; she's just being grumpy because the transfer forced her to say goodbye to her stupid classmates."  
"Well, now we have a very large garden!" Retorted Mrs. Holmes, with undisguised satisfaction " We could invite a lot of people."  
Sherlock had just grabbed a fork; his mother's comment frozed him, the cutlery stayed in midair. "You mean ... here? You want to invite people ... here ?!"  
"Yes. Here. And I expect you to do the same, young man. Of course, once the garden will be perfect. It's the last thing left to restore, in this house. Tomorrow morning the gardener will come with the project." Violet didn't conclude the sentence, but from the look she launched to the children, she seemed to imply something like: "Behave yourselves."  
Mycroft shrugged. "I believe I will spend the whole day in the city library. Sherlock is more than able to control Cale, while you will choose among the orchids and tulips."  
The look Sherlock gave to him was furious, while the greater of Holmes poured into the pot a second helping of stew.  
"You should seriously consider the idea of a diet, you know?" He snapped finally the smallest, putting the cutlery - still intact - on the towel and rising from the table. But not before he had accidentally dropped two of living beetles who had recovered from the pocket into Mycroft's plat, while the brother was occupied to respond to the mother, interested to know whether, in fact, in his opinion were better orchids or tulips in front of the staircase of entrance.

It wasn't unusual for Sherlock sleeping about five hours a day. Sometimes he did not sleep at all. That night, however, he was really tired. He had been out all afternoon in the open country, catching blacks, blue, green and shiny beatles. Not that he was obsessed with them, or anything like that; he was simply bored to death and since before he moved there he had spent those twelve years of life in the chaos of the city, this was the first time he came in direct contact with nature and all that creatures with six / eight legs that were part.  
During the search, he had also noticed strange fat and hairy caterpillars.   
They reminded him of Mycroft. He decided next day he would return to the woods to gather as many as possible, so that the first brother would have had a nice surprise, once he'd went to sleep the following night.  
Lulled by the soft patter of rain against the windows, thinking about what he could have done the next day, he slowly fell asleep without even realizing it.

Damn. Apparenty, Cale had decided to not sleep a wink all night. She was going on for more than two hours and since Sherlock's room was on the second floor, directly beneath the music room, he was not able to sleep, even with the pillow pressed against the ears.  
That's why he had kicked the blankets, walking barefoot up the stairs, to the third floor.  
The door of the music room was wide open, the entire wing was shrouded by darkness; but it wasn't a problem for Sherlock. Assailed by boredom, he had lost count of how many times he went up and down, in the all house, so that he could have moved with his eyes closed. He walked confidently across the room, until his eyes slowly began to get used to the darkness and, finally, distinguished the familiars features of his sister, sitting on a stool. The white ivory keys seemed almost to stand out, compared to the black piano, which seemed to comply with the darkness around them.  
Cale began to strum the piano since she was four; in recent months the private lessons had been gradually decreased, but this hadn't been a barrier to her unconditional love for that instrument. Forcing mother to buy books and books - she still had too little expert for authors for whom she was really interested - and she used to spend whole afternoons, practicing.  
From the day of the move, however, she had stopped doing that as well.  
"I went to look in the cellar tonight, during your dinner."  
She heard him.  She always heard him, despite Sherlock's attempt to be quieter than a cat.  
Her voice convinced him to come closer. Then he sat down on one side of the stool, forcing her to move a bit.  
"No, I did not. I had closed the door."  
"One day I will teach you what you can do with a couple of pins and a closed lock."  
"Saw anything interesting?"  
"Yes, Mycroft's stew, when I walked back upstairs." Her hands lingered on the ivory keyboard, taking a series of simple agreements. "What did he say? Did he enjoy the spiders?"  
"Beetles" Sherlock corrected her, masking a frown of irritation. If she had answered that way it meant she hadn't considered interesting his collection of insects. "And, honestly, he did not even notice it."  
Cale clicked his tongue against the teeth "Yes, he did. He's not stupid. It will make you pay for that."  
"It doesn't pay enough attention when it comes to food. He didn't notice."  
" He did. "  
" Didn't."  
"You're bad, Sherlock. Sooner or later Myke will convince mom to lock you up in a correctional institute, or whatever it's called."  
"And you, where do you think they'll put you if you don't start eating again? And talking?" Sherlock replied, more sharply than he wanted to do "Talk with them, I mean."  
In response, Cale shrugged.  
Sherlock stared his sister's face for a moment, before yawning. "I went here to tell you to stop, anyway. Thanks to you I cannot sleep."  
"Count the sheeps."  
"I already did it."  
"Then go into the cellar to dissect insects. I won't stop playing until I'm stove."  
Sherlock had to appeal to all his good sense not to insult her, when Cale looked at him in passing, withdrawing her face the following instant. It was really a moment, but it was enough to Sherlock.  
"You cried again."  
Cale did not reply. She was merely playing that sad litany, the same she was carrying out for hours, embellishing it and changing it from time to time.  
Sherlock didn't insist. The temperament of that girl was one of the most interesting mysteries which had allowed him not to go crazy from boredom, in that so ordinary family.

_"Mycroft?"  
"Not now, Sherlock. I'm busy."  
"Why doesn't Cale laugh anymore?"  
"... What? "  
"She doesn't admit it, but she cries every night. She refuses to eat, even when mom prepares her favorite meals. She has become unpleasant and grumpy. Even more than you."  
"Oh, suddenly you care about her?"  
"I do not understand why she acts this way."  
"Maybe you should ask her."  
"I do. But she never answers. "_

  
                                                                
 

**St. Bart's, London; h 07.13**

  
The nurse is forcing him to swallow some spoonful of tea.  
Ridiculous. He woke up from about thirty seconds, and the only thing he'd like is - more morphine, but doesn't say that - going back to sleep.  
He feels stunned, bruised, confused. And annoyed. The nurse seems to be in a hurry and at the end Sherlock seals his lips, refusing to eat anything else.  
"Thank you, that's okay ... I got it."  
John. Thank God.  
"Come on, Sherlock" begins the doctor, as soon as the nurse vanishes, giving them the right privacy. "You need to get your strength."  
"Hmm ..." is the most sensible thing that comes out from his lips, while his head is swirling like a crazy needle. "Not now, John." He whispers, when his stomach winces, causing the wound back to hurt. "Please." He adds, sure with what he will give the final blow to his friend, making him desist.  
In fact, John supports the cup on the tray overflowing with cookies and bars, abandoned on the bedside table.  
"Okay," the doctor moves a chair beside the bed, and intertwines hands on their own legs. He does not know what to say. It seems that Sherlock is recovering well, although not fast enough as he had dared to hope. Despite his life is no longer threatened, John can not make it to see him so.  
While Sherlock was sleeping, John passed a damp cloth on his face and neck, removing all traces of sweat, and finally had arranged his hair. Those black and rebel curly, that just would not hear of remaining in place. Gave him look so boyish, especially when he was unconscious, that John found himself staring without closing his eyes even once, for half an hour.  
But now he just won't watch it more. He wants to hear his voice again, he needs to know how he is.  
For this, after clearing his throat a few times, to be sure to get his attention, he asks calmly: "Who is Redbeard?"  
Sherlock breathes slowly and with difficulty. His face is heading towards John, watching him with tired and fogged eyes.  
John feels compelled to justify, even if he doesn't understand why. "Last night. You asked me to take your dog off ... then you said Redbeard. So, I was wondering ... yes, well, Magnussen, when he came to Baker Street, also said that name."  
Typical of John.  
Curiosity is a natural gift, after all. And this time, it will be for drugs that have dazed him, but his only desire is to pull the plug and take shelter away from all that pain again, Sherlock replied without thinking. "It was my dog. It has been murdered. "  
This time he realizes that is about to pass out, because the darkness takes longer to embrace him; but when he opens his mouth to ask John not to leave, it's too late.  
                                                                    

  
  
**Norfolk. Nineteen years ago.**  


  
Mycroft had slipped away in the library as promised; mom and dad, enthusiastic, shook hands with the gardener, complimenting for his project, while Sherlock watched them warily from the door of the kitchen.  
He was a singular man, the gardener, very high and rugged, with many calluses on his hands, which justified the hard work he did. Sherlock had just decided to get comfortable to look at him carefully to deduce as much information as possible - anything to keep from getting bored! - when a male voice behind him, made him turn suddenly.  
"Come on, we got there. Sit down here. Hey, skinny, bring us some ice"  
A little boy had just entered the kitchen, his arm tight around Cale's side, who was laboriously hopping on one leg.  
"It doesn't seem so bad, now. Hello, Sherlock!" She greeted him, as if nothing had happened, once she climbed on a stool.  
"What have you done?" Sherlock hissed, throwing a quick glance toward the door, before closing the tent. When Mycroft wasn't there, she was under his responsibility. And if Mom came to know that she had hurt herself ...Sherlock pulled out of the freezer an ice pack, wrapping it in a towel. He returned to Cale to take a look at the leg, but the boy took the package from his hands, putting it below the calf.  
"Don't tell Mom." She begged him, her eyes bright.  
"Of course I won't tell her!" Snapped Sherlock. " She could put me in detention."  
"I was playing with Victor and I accidentally stepped on his dog's tail ..."  
"Who is Victor?" Sherlock interrupted her.  
"I am" replied the boy, straightening momentarily to offer him the hand "Victor Trevor. The son of your gardener."  
His hand was rough and calloused, probably like his father's.  
Sherlock was appalled. How long did Cale know that Victor? One hour, to be generous. She was letting him touch her like she would have done with an old friend. Like with Mycroft. Or with him. Out of the blue, Sherlock felt a deep aversion to the unknown boy.  
"His dog has bitten me."

 

"We need the analysis. That fleabag might have rabies."  
"The fleabag has a name. Anyway, I can assure you that it has not rabies. At most, a couple of ticks."  
"I'm fine, Sherlock. I do not feel bad. And the leg is almost completely deflated."  
"You're limping so much that I'm willing to bet all Mycroft's cravats that Mom will notice it by this evening." Sherlock replied, walking back and forth to the kitchen. "Or maybe not. After all, she's not very smart. Maybe we don't take risks."  
"You must be a very devoted son if you speak every day about your mother that way" objected Victor with an half smile, helping Cale to get up.  
Sherlock froze, staring at him with false friendliness. "And your father? How about if we talk to him? Or do you want me to tell you what you already know? I know you're a very devoted son and you would never speak ill of your father, at least in presence of strangers. I know you don't have brothers and your father has drinking problems, which he regularly solves on you, or rather, on your back. " talking, had the satisfaction of seeing the square face of the boy change, while his robust hands automatically went to pull down the hem of the shirt, that during the time spent on his knees to help Cale had lifted a bit ', revealing that those were probably the marks left by a leather belt against the skin. The same belt, heavy and ruined by time and by too many different uses that the gardener was wearing outside.  
Victor said nothing. He just stared at him in silence, with a different light in the green eyes, until Cale intervened, breaking the ice and tension that had been created in that room in ten seconds.  
"Don't take it personally, he's sociopath."  
Victor blinked a few times, before looking around, hands in his jeans pockets, before saying: "My father should have finished for today. I take off the trouble."  
"Will you come tomorrow?"  
Sherlock looked at Cale, incredulously. What had happened that morning? She seemed another person. In recent months she had been isolated to cry and yell against anyone who came near her, and now ...  
"I'll see" Victor shrugged, looking sideways at Sherlock.  
"I'll walk you to the door." the boy volunteered.

They had just taken the corridor, long gone from the kitchen and from Cale, when the attack came from nothing. Sherlock moaned when he was pressed against the wall, Victor's forearm pressed against his throat, the expression on his face more furious than ever.  
"Listen," he began, "There are two things I cannot stand: who poke noses into my business and who is so stupid to do so, bragging in front of me. So do me a favor, indeed, make one to yourself; in the next few days that will come here, keep your deductions for yourself, otherwise, I can promise you, I will punch your face so much that even if your mother was the smartest woman in the world - and from what I understand she is not - she wouldn't be able even to recognize you. "  
He ended the threat with a sharp thrust, which was enough to take Sherlock's breath away, before Victor walked away from him.  
The little Holmes broke away from the wall, rubbing the back of his head, and then he left him a crooked smile. "That's it? I was expecting at least a punch in the face ..." he paused, narrowing the eyes, "You wanted to do it, admit it. But you can not, because you fear I could make the spy. And if I do not, it will do the bruise you'd leave me. That's why you didn't beat me, your father needs this work. Not to mention what he would do to you."  
"I just told you to keep this deductions for you." Repeated the boy, his arms at his sides.  
Sherlock smiled. "My sister likes you."  
"She's smart."  
Sherlock frowned. " Do you really think that? "  
"She must be, with a brother like you."  
"She wants you to come back tomorrow."  
" And you? "  
Sherlock thought for a second. "Your father is a gardener ... so you have to know a lot about insects."  
Victor did not answer and walked away. "I know where the exit is." stopped him, when Sherlock started to follow him.  
The young Holmes remained there, looking Victor disappear around the corner; He began to understand why Cale liked him so much; that boy was interesting and, surely, he was anything but boring.

Victor returned the next day. He was clutching a box.  
He didn't even look at Sherlock, he went straight from Cale, placing the box in her hands as a gift and making his apology for the incident of the day before.  
He told them that the fleabag, as Sherlock called the dog, had had puppies a few months ago; he and his father couldn't afford to keep all the puppies, so they had sold almost all them in different families living in the surrounding area.  
"But this is a gift." He said, while Cale lifted the lid.  
A reddish jumping wad peered over the edge, pointing his big and liquids brown eyes upon them.  
"Look, Sherlock!" Said Cale, taking the puppy in her arms. She got up from the couch, supporting it on her chest, to keep it better, then she glanced toward Victor. "And it's all ours? Really?" She asked, his eyes shining.  
"It's yours." The boy said, glancing indifferent towards Sherlock. He disappeared for a few moments in the kitchen, returning with a Coke can in his hands. He found the Holmes brothers crouched on the carpet of the living room, playing with their new friend.  
Sherlock stroked the puppy, scrabbling the hairy ears, and the animal began to shake his tail furiously. Then it licked his nose by treachery, when the boy came up too.  
Then Cale laughed, while Sherlock passed a hand over his face, to remove burrs from nose and mouth.  
Sherlock stared at her. Then he stared at Victor, and again, Cale.  
What the heck was the problem? He should have been happy. The night before, when Violet had called the children for dinner, almost the ladle had got out of her hand after seeing Cale taking place at the table, between Sherlock and Mycroft.  
Sherlock could not understand the fact that this stranger, who was leaning listlessly against the wall, had done in a couple of days what Sherlock had failed.  
Despite the insults of Mycroft, Sherlock did not consider himself stupid; he knew Cale was not well. For several months, Mom and Dad made her eat several candies of different colors, twice a day.

_"And she thinks those are really candies ...? She's really dummy."  
"She is nine, Sherlock. Mom doesn't consider wise frighten her unnecessarily, explaining those are pills."  
"Precisely for this reason I find it stupid. Pills are for sick people."  
" What's your point? "  
"Cale is not sick!"  
"Oh, Sherlock ..."  
"She isn't sick ... is she?"  
"Sometimes I wonder who's the real dummy, here."_

"Mom will never allow us to keep it." That phrase came out of his mouth without his permission and especially without real conviction.  
Mom loved animals; who knew, maybe they had some chances to keep the dog. And Dad ... well, he always agreed with her.  
No. He knew why he had said such a thing.  
He liked that dog; he liked a little less the fact that it was a gift from Victor.  
He didn't know how to explain it, but he felt that taking the puppy with them, it would have been like to accept the strange guy from the marked back in their intimacy. Not that they really had one.  
And from that moment on, Cale would have been crazy. She would come back euphoric, talkative and unbearably ordinary. Perhaps mom and dad would made her even stop taking candies.

_"And doesn't this make you glad? You're a bad brother, let me tell you."  
"And you, how useful for her have you been instead? You never bothered to talk to her, I always had to do it by myself!"  
"There's none so deaf as those who will not hear."  
"But that Victor, she listens to him. I hate it. Like he was his brother!"  
"Are you jealous, Sherlock?"  
" No, not at all. "  
"You should be"_

  
Three hours later, the puppy became official member of the Holmes family. Mom had completely fallen in love with him, she cuddled him as you do with a newborn.  
In addition, they discovered that evening, the setter had an extraordinary fondness for Mycroft's socks. Several times it had tried to slip them off with teeth at the table, and even when the oldest of Holmes brothers was sitting on the couch, reading a book.  
Mycroft had to restrain himself from giving him a kick.  
"He has chosen you as the perfect victim. It's a good sign, it means he is smart."  
"Shut up, Sherlock."  
 

  
_"Okay, maybe I'm jealous. A little bit."  
" What are you afraid of? "  
"Victor. The more I look at him, the more I realize I'm not able to read him. The inferences I draw whenever I talk to him are always different, or too shallow or too inconclusive, which is weird because his father is an open book . And Cale hangs entirely on his every word. It's a strange guy and certainly interesting; the other day he brought me some books on the classification of insects in southern England, and he took me around the country, teaching me how to distinguish an immense variety of terrain. I like to be in his company. "  
" But...? "  
"I can't read him. I don't understand what goes on in his head, if he really thinks what he says, and if this harmony with Cale will take some consequences. The more she approaches him, the further she strays from us."  
"Sherlock. Don't tell me you're starting to see that Trevor as a friend of yours?"  
"..."  
"You're incorrigible, brother mine, but I'm not surprised. Just think to not get involved, and, from tomorrow, leave all deductions to me."_    

 

**St. Bart's, h 18.31**

The fever seems to corrode him from the inside. The nurse comes running to John's call, she prepares the morphine.  
"Cale!" Sherlock stirs between the covers, he wants to run, run away as far as possible, until no longer be able to hear the chilling echo of that name "Cale!!"  
Inonsciously, he tries to tear needles from his arms.  
"Sherlock, jus-calm down!" John immobilizes Sherlock as best he can, while the nurse requires assistance. Within a minute, other three nurses held firm the consulting detective, while the woman injects the morphine. The effect is almost immediate and Sherlock sighs, dropping in the, now, unmade bed. 

 

 

**St. Bart's, h 20.40**

  
"There's something wrong, I've never seen him so delusional ..."  
"Be patient, John. He was shot, my goodness! What do you expect?" Lestrade's voice sounds nervous and worried through the phone "Listen, I'm still in central. I'm afraid that bastard of my boss will stop me yet. I will arrive as soon as possible. "  
"No problem, I'm staying here." John concludes, before closing the call. He sighs, stopping in the middle of the hospital corridor. He walked back and forth all the time, yet undecided whether to stay or go home. Mary continued to shower him with calls and messages in which she begged him to go home to rest, but in the end John felt he could not leave.  
Walking exhausted to the room in which Sherlock rests and immediately opens his eyes, realizing that his friend is awake and started to sit down, looking around.  
"Sherlock" John exclaims "How are you feeling?" He hesitates, carefully watching his skin color.  
"A little better." Mutters the consulting detective, unable to hide a grimace "The fever has dropped. Are there any cookies?"  
"Is your appetite come back?" Asks John, with a hint of relief in his voice, as he touches the face of his friend, to check that the temperature is actually lowered. Then, he grabs an energy bar left on the tray and begins to discard it, while Sherlock watches him in silence.  
"For how long did I sleep?" He wants to know.  
"Not much. The nurse had to give you a sedative, because you was yelling nonsense. Fortunately, this time there wasn't Lestrade filming you."  
Sherlock ignores the last joking comment and asks him another question: "What did I say?"  
The thought he could have said something incriminating about Mary touches his mind for a moment, before John answers.  
"Nothing ... you mentioned Mary's name a couple of times, and mine." Sherlock sighs of relief "And then you talked about Redbeard."  
" Yes, I remember. "  
"You said it was your dog. I didn't know you've had dog. Oh, and you mentioned Cale."  
Sherlock is about to pull a bite to the bar, when he hears that name; he remains stationary, the bar forgotten in his hand, squaring John with apprehensive eyes.  
" Did I? "  
"Twice. Who is Cale? Your cat?" Jokes John, but he stops immediately when he notices the look on his friend's face. "Sherlock?"  
The consulting detective recovers quickly, blinking and taking a bite of the energetic bar. "No," he reveals a mouthful "I was talking about the youngest member of my family."  
"Mmm-hmm," asserts John, nodding with his head, until Sherlock can almost feel the bell that rings out in the doctor's head, when he rewinds the tape and listens again to that phrase in his mind. "Wait, what?!"  
The quiet and innocent expression of Sherlock busy eating, doesn't prevent him from pressing and asks incredulously: "What's this about? Besides Mycroft ..." swallows " Do you have another brother? And why have I never heard you talking about him?! "  
Sherlock suddenly starts to giggle. It doesn't last long, because laughing causes him a lot of pain in the abdom, but the John's comment amused him.  
" Why are you laughing? "  
"The roles seem reversed, this time ..." smiles Sherlock, before returning seriously "Cale's short for Calanthia."  
The moment he pronounces those words, John's mind is embraced by a pleasant deja-vu ...

_" Harry's short for Harriett. "_

  
"Cale... you had a sister...?"  
"Old story." Sherlock liquids the thing, with a shrug.  
" Where is she now? "  
"I said it's old story."  
John shakes his lips from disappointment.  
Damn. He too, though! He cannot drop a bomb like that, expecting John doesn't ask him anything. On the other hand, even if it was an old story, if Sherlock made her name in his sleep, it means that it's an important story.  
But if he doesn't want to tell it, it's not right on his part ask him anything. Healing first of all, Dr. Watson repeats mentally to himself.  
Sherlock intercepts his look and sighs. "Mycroft and I promised each other  never to say a word about this, either among ourselves or with others. It would only reopen old wounds, never completely healed. And none of us want to see mom in those conditions, again. "  
John listens carefully. Sherlock's voice is low, seemingly quiet, but he seems transported from the memories. As if his mind was light years away, in a dimension that John can't reach. And he hates when this happens, because he's not able to help his friend.  
"Sure," the doctor clears his throat, giving him a reassuring smile, "I understand. I asked only because of the way you said her name, it seemed that ..."  
...That he needed to talk about it.To blow off steam with someone, to explode, freeing from the painful pressure in his chest, which was back there to hurt him; the same pain he had mistaken for his Redbeard.  
Sherlock closes his eyes, sinking into the pillow.  
He knows he can trust him, as he knows that one of John's beautiful looks would be enough to lighten that burden. But he can not do it, not yet. John has to deal with something much more urgent now.  
His wife.  
                                                                             

  
**Norfolk. Nineteen years ago.  
13th July.**  


  
Sherlock was winning. Again.  
Cale was too easy to beat at chess; not that she was idiot, but definitely that wasn't her favorite game, and she tended to distract herself too much.  
"You haven't made me your wishes."  
"Technically, you'll be ten years at 22.10 this evening." Sherlock replied impassively.  
"But I don't want to wait until 22.10. I want them now."  
"You beat me, and I will make you the best wishes."  
" No. "  
"Concentrate on the game. Your move." Sherlock said, after having knocked out the second bishop.  
Cale snorted, holding his head with the hands. She was lying on the stomach, on the carpet in front of the chessboard, and kept glancing at the clock pendulum.  
"Why don't we go for a ride? Playing chess is boring." And just to give value to the words she had just uttered, she moved a pawn at random. " Your move."  
"Mom and Dad went out to buy cake and balloons. We can't leave home until Mycroft doesn't come back. Your move."  
Sherlock maintained a prudent silence at the sight of Cale's pout. Luckily, he had managed to build in time the present for the little sister, keeping it hidden in the cellar. He had worked day and night, and was quite satisfied of the result. He couldn't wait to enjoy Cale's face, when she would see it.  
Yet another look at the clock made him curious.  
" Are you waiting for someone? "  
"Yes, Victor." That name was able to make him disappear the good humor " We have to go for a hike in the woods. He should be here in five minutes."  
Sherlock didn't even have time to argue, that Cale stood up with a small leap.  
"In fact, it'd be better if I start prepare my things. I'm just wasting time playing with you."  
"Of course, because you already know that you'll lose." Snapped Sherlock, piqued.  
"Think what you want."  
"You can not disappear all day with Victor, not today. It's your birthday, remember?"  
" So what? "  
"So sweets, cheerful songs, greeting cards, gifts unwrapped and all that nonsense our mother is so determined to make us put up with every year!"  
"Nonsense, exactly."  
"Mycroft and I endure all this every time, what makes you think you can get a special treatment?"  
"Just the fact that I have a friend, Sherlock."  
The boy looked up at the sky, puffing. "What's that supposed to mean? Victor is also my friend." In deep (very deep) he thought so seriously. Yet, it was so weird to say that word, friend.  
Cale's eyes narrowed, as she put on the scarf. "I Don't doubt it, but then explain to me why you're so jealous."  
" Am I-what? "  
"Don't deny it. Every time he comes here, you put everything upside down, as to make the home environment more difficult, almost hoping in this way he will go away first. You spend whole hours talking with Victor, but you don't even look at him when I'm here too, as if this bothers you. I bet you're jealous rotten. "  
"And I say that this your pathetic love at first sight is making you ever more dull and unbearable than you already are. Every day you do nothing but talk about Victor, or Redbeard and your irresistible desire to start going to school to know your new classmates. Three illusions, empty, all of them. Do I need to explain you why or you get there on your own? No, forget it; it is obvious you need clarifications. As for Victor, I'm afraid it's a lost cause. He is fourteen, and you're ten, so you'd better to stop braiding your hair and behave like Mycroft. As for Redbeard, well, it's a dog, ergo its life lasts about a fifth of half of yours, I'd suggest not to exceed with the pampering and statements like - friends forever, no one will ever separate me from you - and to finish, why do you care so much about returning in a new class? You know They'll behave just like the idiots which had teased you until last year, they will revile and offend you and call you stupid every time you open your mouth to read anything. Mom and Dad didn't say anything about it, but I always suspected this was the reason we moved. As if it was enough to change things! "  
He stopped to catch his breath.  
For half a minute, the only sound they could heard in the room was the ancient clock's stroke.  
At the end, Cale looked down to the ground "You're the worst brother in the world and know that what you said offended me a hundred times more than anyone else could have done. I hate you!!"  she yelled, running across the room to retrieve his jacket.  
"Stop being so emotional. I didn't mean to offend you, I'm just realist. And you should know it better than anyone else."  
Cale's hands froze, as she pulled up the zipper of her jacket. For a moment her fingers tightened up on the cloth, almost becoming white, before the little girl stated with firm voice: "Tower on e5."  
Sherlock frowned, throwing a confused look at the board.  
"I thought you'd left the game ..."  
"I haven't left anything, tower on e5. Your move."  
Sherlock sighed. "Bishop on e5."  
"Pawn on e5."  
Damn! He didn't see that.  
"Nice move. Have you finally decided to use your brain?" Sherlock muttered, while he eliminated from the board his bishop. "Pawn on c3." He said, eating another piece of her sister.  
Cale ignored the comment, her eyes closed, her fingers wrapped around the scarf. "Queen on b3. Check."  
Suddenly, Sherlock understood what Cale was doing.  
"It's not fair to use the mental palace!"  
"Oh, really? And when did you decide it?"  
Sherlock shifted his king in a safer position, while Cale's queen was going to eliminate another important of Sherlock's pieces.  
"This is tantamount to cheat."  
"There would be no need if you only decide to ..."  
"To do what? Apologize to you? Why? I'm not the one who's trying to trick."  
"I don't want your apologies, but I want you start showing that you care about me!"  
That phrase had the same effect of a bolt from the blue.  
Sherlock was caught by a flash of recognition when, finally, he realized the truth, and suddenly everything - the first time he had met Victor, Cale's sudden mood swings, her excessive smiles, even all that long discussions between Sherlock and Mycroft, talking about his jealousy ... - everything made sense.  
He had fallen into the trap created by Cale, like an idiot.  
That little selfish. Always in search of pampering and attention. Not for nothing she had taken everything from mom.  
What did that mean? Did she pretend all this time with Victor?  
Sherlock didn't care about him. In that moment, thinking he had been deceived in that way was more oppressive than anything. He had worried so much about a danger that didn't exist! He could still hear in his head Mycroft's voice, give him an idiot.  
He was right, Sherlock had been idiot.  
Redbeard made his entrance in the living room, wagging his tail, happily. He sniffed Cale, then he ran from Sherlock, licking his hand.  
"Sherlock" Cale called him, when he turned away, bending down to pet the dog, "Come on, I don't want to quarrel today, on my birthday. Let's do something together. Victor says the grove is full of beehives! And that, once, he found purple honey! " she took a few steps toward the brother," Come with us, please. Come with me. "  
" Leave me alone. "  
Did she want him to show her that he cared about her? What for? There was already Victor for that. That's why he uttered those three words with all the hate and coldness as he could, leaving Cale dumbfounded.  
Cale didn't say a word and walked away, leaving the room in total silence. Sherlock heard the front door close sharply.  
 Three minutes had passed after Cale was gone and Sherlock had just decided to bring Redbeard in the garden. He was trying really hard to train him, but so far the results were not good.  
He grabbed an old tennis ball, preparing to take the dog out, but he stopped, after seeing Victor, leaned against the door frame.  
"How are you, Sherlock?"  
"I thought you were out with Cale."  
"She's waiting outside. I wanted to say hello before." He moved away from the door, approaching. Sherlock followed his every move, "I may have seen bad, but I think she was crying."  
Sherlock tried not to change expression. "No wonder, it was so long since she did it."  
"My father and I, we move to another country. I don't know exactly when, it might be in a week, as well as might be tomorrow. To start over, he said, even though I have no the faintest idea of what it means . "  
This time Sherlock couldn't contain his surprise and stared at him.  
"And ...  does Cale know it already?"  
Victor nodded. "Since yesterday. When I told her, she remained quite ill; I suppose that's why she is crying, now."  
Sherlock's jaw tensed as he turned away, avoiding Victor's eyes.  
"Um, yeah. I guess you want your books back, then ..."  
"You can keep them. Insects always made me sick."  
"No matter, I've read them all, I remember them by heart."  
Victor gave him a strange smile, "Keep them."  
Sherlock didn't try to insist more.  
The boy paused before sighing, still closer, "I would say goodbye, but I have the inexplicable suspect that we will meet again. So hi, Sherlock Holmes."  
Sherlock didn't know how to behave. What needed to be done in these cases? Was there a particular way to greet a friend?  
He looked at Victor. It seemed different that day. His green eyes were darker and more hostile than usual, and he did not seem inclined to carry on that conversation for long.  
"My parents are supposed to return in an hour, even before my brother. Cale can not stay out for long, we have to celebrate." He said, trying not to grimace.  
"Relax, she is in good hands." Victor paused "You have nothing to worry about."  
" I'm not worried. "  
" What a pity. "  
"Excuse me ?!"  
Victor's eyes seemed to pierce his bones, while he repeated the phrase, pointing out syllable by syllable: " What a pity."  
Immediately after, he glanced at his watch and started to back away. "See you," he greeted him with a grin that lasted about a split second, before he turned over the corner and left the house.  
That was the last time Sherlock saw Victor Trevor. 

 

 

**Somewhere, near London.  
Few minutes before the take-off.**

 

Here we are, again, thinks Sherlock.  
This is the second time he says goodbye to John. There are no obstacles, like a thirty-five meters high roof and a mobile phone, to separate them.  
No. They're standing, facing each other, both clumsy and unsure of what to say.  
This time it is a real farewell, without cheating. In six months it will become officially a goodbye without return, having to give credence to of Mycroft's words  
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes."  
" Sorry? "  
"In case you need a name for the baby."  
John makes a laugh, before saying: "No, we have had ecography; it's a girl."  
" Oh. "  
Back to the silence.  
It's impossible to keep mind focused on the fact that they are going to separate again; Sherlock can see it clearly, the terror in John's eyes. It's the same for him, but the consulting detective is able to conceal it through experience and his coldness of spirit; John, on the other hand, thanks to his soldier's temper.  
Saying goodbye is really hard, because they are both aware that Sherlock won't be able to make true any miracle required from John, this time.  
Perhaps, this is what gives him the courage to speak again.  
"John, there's something I should say. I've meant to say always, but I never have. Since it is unlikely we'll never meet again, it might as well say it now."  
Dr. Watson observes him with curiosity, a  melancholic light through his blue eyes.  
"Sherlock is actually a girl's name."  
John rolls his eyes, then burst out laughing. "Is this what you wanted to tell me for so long?" He says, then staring him with suspicion "It is not true, it's not."  
" I swear. "  
"I'll never believe it. We're not naming our daughter after you."  
"It could work. Considering the bad taste our mother has had when she gave us our names."  
John gives him a quizzical look.  
"Don't you think Sherl it's a vaguely feminine nickname?" Says Sherlock "And Cale, how you came logical to assume at Bart's, male?"  
"Oh," John realizes suddenly, nodding to himself, "It would be... the old story, right?"  
"Right. The fact is that initially she was to be called Sherley and I Caleb."  
"No!" Laughs John, followed shortly after by Sherlock "You're kidding me. You always take me around, you will never change."  
The consulting detective shrugs "It was worth to try" then, he gives him an hand, that by itself symbolizes time runs out "To the very best of time, John."                                                                        

 

**Five minutes later.**

  
"Sir? It's your brother."  
Sherlock grabs the phone, annoyed, wondering if Mycroft's doing this on purpose to twist the knife in the wound.  
"Hello brother. How's the exile going?"  
Exactly.  
"I've only been gone four minutes."  
'Well, I hope you have learnt your lesson. As it turnes out, you're needed."  
"Oh, for God's sake, make up your mind once for all!" Growls Sherlock, undecided whether to be angry about the way Mycroft likes to make things more difficult, or perhaps, relieved, because this means there will be no farewell between John and him. "Who needs me this time?"  
"England." Replied the eldest of Holmes, before closing the call. In front of him, the screen projects the grinning face of Jim Moriarty.                                                                         

 

**Norfolk. Seventeen years ago.  
Five weeks after the beginning of school lessons.**

  
She shook the bottle to take three candies in the palm of the hand, then she put them in the mouth.  
She swallowed too quickly and the candies stuck in her throat for a few seconds, making her cough, but no one seemed to have noticed her.  
The Mentor's Hill Institute was considered one of the best schools in the county, and one of the most expensive. Two years Cale walked through those corridors, listened to lectures and waited the day slip away, among the reproaches of professors, the daily distributions of the school newspaper and the sports championships. Yes, because Mentor's Hill used to create a lot of talents (mostly rich kids), real athletes, who usually tended to have a spectacular future. In particular, little swimming's champions. That was the only school to have, in addition to a huge gym and an enviable rugby field, a swimming pool.  
It included middle and high school students in two separate buildings, separated from the outer courtyard. Cale had lessons until two in the afternoon, then she usually decided whether to return home by subway or wait Sherlock and Mycroft for an hour and a half.  
That day, lessons were finished. She had just completed the German's exam, in class. It had been an endless torture, probably the translation she had done was all wrong. She had cancelled everything five times, because the words were constantly changing and she finally threw in the towel, refusing to control it yet.  
Result? Her head was exploding and she had overstated with the dose of candies for that day.  
But when yet another cough made her almost cry, she hastily descended the stairs, ignoring the protests of a few students, annoyed by her rudeness, while she pushed them away, running in the male bathrooms, on the ground floor.  
She always tried not to use the women's services, if she could. There were too many mirrors.  
The week before, a fight between some boys of the fourth year had come to destroy the mirror and one of the sinks, so as long as they were not repaired, that bathroom would have been perfect for her.  
 That school was much more eventful than what all student's families believed, and yet, with students with particularly illustrious name, the principal always managed not to raise any fuss.  
She put his hands cupped under the tap for the third time to drink, when she realized she was not alone in the bathroom. She rolled over exactly when two high and sturdy guys came out from the last cabin.  
There was a third boy, slumped to the ground, his shirt ruined and a trickle of blood from his nose.  
"The next time you get the urge to put some photos on the school website and on this fucking newspaper to ruin my reputation," hissed one of them, throwing a  school newspaper on him " just remind you'll not gonna manage with a couple of punches . Next time I will thrust your head in the toilet and I'll make a nice video. Then, if I'm in a bad mood, I will make sure to send you to the hospital. Do you understand, stupid fucking fag? "  
"What are you doing here?" the other one suddenly exclaimed, when he noticed  Cale "Can't you read? This is the bathroom of boys, get out!"  
"In the girl's one there is a row," she said flatly, taking some piece of paper to dry their hands.  
"Then see to keep your mouth shut. Understood?"  
Cale shrugged, withouth looking at him.  
The boy stared at her for a few seconds, and then he turned to his friend. "Come on Carl, let's go. We'll be late for training."  
That's who they were. Cale remembered she'd already seen them in swimming competitions; they were pretty good. Especially Carl Powers, who had just threatened the boy to the ground. She kicked the backpack of the victim, before disappearing from the bathroom, along with the companion.  
Meanwhile, the boy got up, starting to pick up all the things that had come out from the bag, scattering everywhere.  
Cale hesitated only for a moment, before bending down to pick up the closest objects to her shoes. A bottle of medicine and a closed syringe. She struggled to read the name pinned with a ballpoint pen on the label, before the boy took it away from her hands, but it was too late.  
"Clostridium?" she asked, noting the unknown boy with curiosity. Not that she expected an explanation, but she didn't miss the murderous look the boy had thrown to Powers, the moment before he'd left the service.  
"Yes, you know, is for diabetes." He said, closing the backpack and starting to walk away.  
"It' not true. It is the most toxic substance known to man."  
The guy spun around, with a nervous smile on his face. "Do you like chemistry?"  
" My brother likes it."  
The boy sighed amused, then he raise his hands, in surrender.  
Cale fumbled in her jacket pocket. "I take these, three times a day."  
She showed him the vial containing the anti-depressant, making sure he had read the name on the label. The guy gave her a strange look "Okay. And from one to ten, what should I care?"  
Cale ran the bottle from hand to hand, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor. "Nothing ... well, if one day you want to poison me too ..." she looked up, crossing his black and sharp eyes " I'll make it easy for you."  
Her head was throbbing. The room began to spin like a top. The candies were starting to make effect, she was losing clarity.  
She passed the boy, heading for the exit.  
"Hey, hey, hey, wait. What's your name?"  
Cale closed his eyes, hoping that guy hadn't really going to make friendship.  
"Calanthia Holmes."  
The thud she heard soon after, made her turn. The boy had dropped his backpack on the ground, clapping his hands, as if he had caught a sudden illumination.  
"Wow! I dob't believe it! Are you Calanthia Holmes?" he exulted, approaching and bridging the gap between them "It's a pleasure to meet you. I know your brother is considered a kind of genius, here at school."  
Cale stared without any expression "Which one?"  
The boy seemed surprised, but then he laughed, "Yes, you're right. Stupid question, sorry. Anyway, I'm Jim" he showed up, holding out his hand "Look, I was wondering, If you'd like why don't we g..."  
"No," Cale interrupted him. She did not shake his hand, nor allowed him to say more. She turned her back on him and walked away as quickly as possible.  
That Jim's eyes had made her nervous. They were black as ink. Too dark. They reflected anything, like a mirror, including Cale's face.                                                                                
 

**Baker Street.  
 **

John Watson hasn't nearly time to set foot in the apartment, that the voice of Sherlock resonates low and annoyed by the couch on which he's lying back.  
"I asked you to prepare a tea."  
"What? When?"  
" About an hour ago. "  
John looked up at the sky, counting to three. "Of course you didn't notice I had left. I took Mary home."  
Sherlock doesn't respond. John sits on his chair, looking sideways at his friend.  
Sherlock is launching the skull in the air, and then take it back with the other hand. And then again, he throws and catches. In total tranquility.  
John resists twenty seconds before speaking. "Then, about what happened yesterday ... the inexplicable appearance of Moriarty on any screen existing in England... do you have some theory about it?"  
Sherlock ignores his request and directed him another one. "Do you trust me, John?"  
The doctor takes a break. If he trust him?  
He thinks, before answering. Many questionable events return in his mind ... for example, that time, during their first meeting with Moriarty, Sherlock had played with the life of that old lady just to solve other cases; or, when he had locked up John in that damned laboratory at Baskerville, causing him a heart attack and almost made him believe to be hunted by the hound; worse of all, when he spent the last two years thinking Sherlock was dead.  
But the relief to have his friend with him again, like old times, is stronger than any resentment John can still feed to him, that's why he says: "Yes, of course I trust you."  
Sherlock stops launching the skull, and hold it in his hands, thoughtful.  
"I have to tell you something, John." he murmurs, finally "One thing that I've never told anyone. One thing I've never thought about for several years."  
A subtle foreboding hovers in doctor's head, which feels that somehow this has something about the mysterious "old story." But he stays quiet and makes a gesture of assent to his friend.  
Sherlock takes a deep breath, without taking his eyes from the skull in his hands. "Remember when I mentioned something about Cale?"  
"Yes ..." asserts John, frowning, wondering why Sherlock has changed his mind and decided to tell him about her.  
"We were an ordinary family, after all, considering our parents" Sherlock closes his eyes, settled back on the couch "But Cale was different from Mycroft and me. When she was a child, she began to manifest signs of a severe form of dyslexia, which prevented her from reading and writing even the simplest things. At first it didn't seem to scare her, our mother continually reassured her, saying that it was perfectly curable, but soon the situation got worse. At school she was often mocked by his companions, hardly studied on the books and, certainly, the diplomatic arrogance of Mycroft and me did not help her self-esteem. I regret I didn't see it before. "Sherlock pauses, before continuing," Soon, this led her to feel in some way incompetent, not only with respect to us, but also to all the other children. She did not feel herself to the same level of the others, and this led her developing a deep sense of guilt, which made her feel somehow completely responsible for her difficulties. It was not long before she fell into depression. " Sherlock moved his head toward John" She was eight. "  
John's palate is dry, as he listens those words. It was terrifying. Terrifying to think of such a situation, for an eight years old girl.  
"Then, because of my father's work, he took the decision to transfer all the family in Norfolk. My mother was over the moon to the idea of living in the country. She hoped that it could somehow take benefit for Cale, whom, for several monthsm had started taking medicines. My father wanted to call a specialist, but mother had opposed with all her might, she said Cale was too young for psychiatric examinations, it would do nothing but scare her. And then, one day, here comes Victor Trevor. "  
Sherlock spits out theatname as if it's poison. When he pronounces the "V" of Victor, John can see from his post the sign imprinted by the teeth of the friend on his lips.  
"He was the son of our gardener. A cute boy. He was my first, real friend."  
The latest revelation leaves John speechless. He opens his eyes and gasps, muttering a "Wht ...? Your friend?"  
Sherlock looks at him. "Yes, John. Friend. That's exactly what I said. Or at least, I had the illusion that he was. Cale couldn't do without him any longer." He stops, hearing John launch a chuckle.  
"Did I say something funny?" he asks coldly.  
"No no, I'm sorry. It's just that ..." John tries to do local mind to explain himself "I It's just, the only time I heard you talking about someone like your friend was when you referred to the skull you usually use as an ashtray ... "  
Sherlock's expression is unreadable. And maybe that's what triggers something in John, while on his face is painted a doubtful consciousness.  
"Wait. The skull. Who was...?"   
Sherlock resumed his story "Time spent, and Cale seemed to improve. There was no doubt that the company that the boy did very well for her. She stopped taking pills and she even convinced our mother to let her take private lessons to correct dyslexia. Do you believe, John, that I could not accept all this? That her attachment to Victor ... I didn't like it at all. First I thought it was just a stupid sort of fraternal jealousy, or one of those emotions, which seems I'm not provided. After, I realized the problem was not Cale, but Victor. That guy, as we found out later, was a very clever boy, who had had the misfortune to have a drinker, and extremely violent ex-soldier as father, mentally compromised by traumas experienced during the war.The day Cale was ten years it was also the day she had a sudden relapse. "  
"Why? What happened?" John asks, softly. They hear the siren of an ambulance rushing to Baker's Street, while night is coming.  
Sherlock swallows, passing an index through the empty socket of the skull. "I haven't been able to thru it. I did not read the signs on to my dear friend Victor, but Mycroft did. That was the first time I saw my brother make a decision following instinct instead of reason . It was also the last time, by the way. I guess  seeing Cale smiling again and mom so happy for her had held him back. On the other hand, he didn't become part of the British government yet, but if he had had a chance, he'd surely provided Calanthia any kind of protection ... "Sherlock stops when he feels a tear fall from his right eye, drawing a hot trail along the cheek. Fortunately, John cannot notice it from there.  
He quickly passes his sleeve against the cheek, before hissing: "Victor Trevor molested my sister, John."  
Only now, John realizes that he had been holding his breath until then. A bit like when you hear an horror story; you already know that it won't end well. But when the story is real, it's not just about tension and fear. It hurts, much more.  
"He and his father one day packed their bags and moved, and within two years Cale became another person. At that point, even my mother was forced to capitulate. She started with some therapy sessions, but the situation got worse. She passed from hand to five different analysts and none of those incompetents had been able to help her. She didn't speak, nor could stand the sight of her face. She covered all the mirrors because she didn't recognize her reflection anymore. "  
"D.D.I.?"  
John's question silences Sherlock, who turns to stare him. He nods, with a hint of sadness in those beautiful blue eyes.  
"Exactly." Funny how because of a simple SMS certain memories that a person closes in the bottom drawer of his mental palace, suddenly and mercilessly re-emerge, thinks the consulting detective. " Some analysts of a famed psychiatric hospital in Oslo confirmed that Cale was suffering from this disorder. I admit that when Mycroft started to have enough authority to do what he wanted, he didn't waste time, but he hasn't been quick enough. One day, Cale has completely... lost her mind. She choked Redbeard with her own hands, and when she returned in herself she didn't remember what she had done. I loved that dog, "added Sherlock, hesitating," it was his memory that had kept me from falling into a state of shock, when Mary shot me. "  
John swallows, trying to stay calm. He feels his eyes pinching and a fucking desire to stand up and embrace his friend. Or, simply, tell him something ... whatever may sound a bit comforting, 'cause behind that imperturbable facade, the doctor warns distress in his friend's voice, the pain in those words which all the time he tried to not breake. " She had become dangerous. At the end Mycroft made sure she was transferred to the Oslo's hospital, an advanced treatment center, protected by the best security systems, constantly monitored and managed by doctors who know how to do their jobs . At least, so he assured me. I never went to visit her. "  
Sherlock throws the skull to John, who catches it. "Over the years, Victor's father died and he joined a band of terrorists who, among other things, practiced illicit diamond traffic and had a major prostitution ring. Six years ago Mycroft managed to find him and all of other components. We would have liked being face to face with Victor, both of us "Sherlock murmurs, joining hands under the chin, lost in who knows what memories " But he hanged himself before Mycroft's agents captured him. But I have kept his souvenir, as you can see. "concludes with a smile, with an explicit look at the skull.  
As he hears these words, John takes a look on the table with utter disgust and dismay. Absurd. He has picked up countless times that thing, but now only the thought of touching it makes him shudder.  
"What is that face, John? It is excellent as an ashtray, you said that." Quips Sherlock.  
" And you never visited her?" Whispers the doctor "Any improvements, till now?"  
" No, and they'll never be, as long as she blocks any attempt of approach."  
John shakes his head, "I don't understand."  
"She used her mental palace as isolation. Analysts believed that Dissociative Disorder had originated as a result of her attempt to escape from that childhood trauma, and, that in this way Cale has dissociated from herself, creating a new identity convinced not to have suffered any harassment, but unable to recognize anyone, not even his family. Our mother did not react very well to the news. "  
"Oh, God ..." is all comes from John's mouth, as he rubs his forehead "Sherlock, I ... I'm so sorry."  
"Yes, well '... I assume each family has its skeletons in the cupboard."  
"Is this the reason of the feud between you and Mycroft?" The question eludes him without his permission, but John cannot help it. How many times had he tried to imagine the reason of the grudge between them? He remembers the time he had accused Mycroft of having broken his Action Man ... the shame and embarrassment he feels at that moment is indescribable.  
"Mycroft always tries to remind me a lesson he learned on his own skin." Sherlock replied.

_"Caring is not an advantage."_

  
"Okay." John takes a deep breath, before straightening "But I don't understand. Why did you tell me?"  
"Because of this." Sherlock suddenly jumped off the couch, reaching the table and retrieving his cell phone. He waves a text message in front of John's face, impatiently. " Mycroft sent me this half an hour ago. He makes sure that everything is always under his control and that includes Cale. Forty minutes ago, someone hacked the security system of Oslo's psychiatric hospital, disabling it completely. When the system was back up, they discovered that patient n. 221b was missing. "  
"And who does that number belongs to?" John asks, although he knows that it's a useless question, as it would be to ask the identity of the mysterious hacker.  
 

**Oslo's Psychiatric hospital.  
Forty-five minutes ago.**

  
Cale hums with mouth closed, lying on a white bed, when she hears the door to her room opening. Is already time for dinner? No, impossible.  
Maybe it's another surprise inspection. They don't trust much her.  
She sits and observes the nurse who comes in with a light step, almost dancing, finishing in front of her.  
She's never seen him before; he is young, with black hair carefully combed and eyes, if possible, even darker.  
" Look who the cat dragged in!" he exults, with a smile that doesn't bode well "Did you miss me?"  
"Who are you?" She whispers, defensively.  
"Oh, no no no, don't be afraid, sweetheart. It's not necessary." he approaches, observing Cale, as you do with a rare specimen in a zoo. "How rude they are by keeping you locked up here all day. Such a waste ...! I think I'll never understand what goes through your brother's head."  
Under his arm, the stranger holds what looks like a coat.  
"I'll take you out. The game starts again." His fingers tighten around Cale'sidentification bracelet - n. 221b - pulling until he removes it. "You won't need it any more. Besides, it didn't suit you."  
He gently grabs her by the elbows, helping her to stand up, then makes her wear the coat.  
Cale lets him do it. " Who are you? "  
"James Moriarty" he replies, tilting slightly his head, in what seems to be an ironic bow. "Jim, for friends. But for you, let's see ... I will be the west wind."  
Cale makes a little chuckle; that nickname is the memory of something to whom she doesn't think for a long time.  
" And why? "  
" Because, my dear Calanthia ..." whispers Jim, just a few centimeters from her lips, and raises the coat's collar to conceal her face "When the west wind will collide with the East Wind, better for us cover well. There will be a devastating hurricane. " 


End file.
